Do I Dare?
by aphpenmark
Summary: "T.S. Eliot asked him, "Do I dare disturb the universe?". No. No, he never did. It was too risky for him, too unknown. He was the Prufrock of modern day, in a sense. He could never ask his question, in fear of ruining any stable life he held so dear." (FrUk. AU)


Arthur was never one for emotional attachment, or friends of any sort. He prefered his typewriter over any human company, and as he liked to point out time and time again- much more than he liked one particular French man. His roommate of three years could only ever be described as annoying, touchy, and altogether impossible to live with. It wasn't a rare occasion to find razors with little "to Arthur 3" tags attached stacked up around his room (he always thought he was so funny for making the joke even children on the playground in Elementary school made), or his few bathroom possessions overpowered by the absolute tower of exotic hair products with odd french labels. At his best, Francis was a bother.

That wasn't to say he wasn't alright on occasion. No, Francis did indeed have a few shining moments. Sometimes Arthur would wake up in the morning to find the apartment cleaned and breakfast waiting on the table (French food, mostly, but delicious nonetheless. As if that stopped him from complaining about any piece of it he could. That was just how they worked.). Once in a while, he would find him laying on the couch, arms held open, asking him to join him for a movie night. Although Arthur always shook his head and took the seat farthest from him he could find, he enjoyed the nights. (And he enjoyed the thought of laying in his arms, Francis's soft hair tickling his cheek. Sometimes the thoughts would make him blush and he would excuse himself to the bathroom as Francis laughed, asking what the matter was. He stayed silent the rest of the night on those days.). There was even the rare occasion that Arthur would be reading poetry in his bed, and Francis would sneak in and climb up next to him. He would whisper the words along as Arthur read (never at the same speed Arthur was reading, but he couldn't bring himself to complain at these times), his hand nearly rested against Arthur's own. They never dared move an inch closer, in fear of pushing the other away.

Arthur's favorite instance of Francis's less annoying side was when he baked. He would dance around the kitchen (not even the horrible kind of dancing most people were cursed to do when goofing off, but a smooth and graceful movement that captivated onlookers until he finally stopped) and belt out the words to some sweet French song, flour flying around him until he looked like he was dancing up in the clouds. It didn't take long for Francis to take his hands and pull him along, twirling him around and making him even more dizzy than he felt just watching the man. He may have laughed, but the memory was so full of the look on his face he barely remembered the details.

Arthur wondered and questioned, on occasion, as most authors do. If his life was a poem and these were the beginning lines, what would the ends be? The question often intoxicated him, kept him awake in the middle of the night. He even asked Francis, once, and received warnings to not dwell on things not yet over. Despite knowing Francis was wise, he couldn't bring himself to ever stop.

To be honest, he wasn't perfectly sure what he was asking. The more he searched for answers, the more questions he found.

T.S. Eliot asked him, "Do I dare disturb the universe?".

No. No, he never did. It was too risky for him, too unknown. He was the Prufrock of modern day, in a sense. He could never ask his question, in fear of ruining any stable life he held so dear.

To ask his question would be to lose the movie nights and the poetry reading and the breakfasts, and for what? No, he could not disturb the universe.

Francis was always warm. A reminder of Spring throughout cold winter nights. He looked the part, Arthur mused, looking over his hair that looked more like sun than it did any reasonable shade of blond. His voice as well was like wind. A warm gust that travelled along his skin when Francis scooted too close in an attempt to read the small printed poetry across the page.

"And would it have been worth it, after all

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it towards some overwhelming question…"

Arthur wondered if Francis had a question too. He wondered if his chest felt just as tight as his did as he read off the lines, and if his pause was on account of curiosity as strong as Arthur's… And for a moment, he thought he might ask.

"I'm going to bed, now. Goodnight, Arthur."

And with that, he was gone. No, Francis didn't dare disturb the universe either. Perhaps not because he feared losing what he had, but because he feared what he might gain. It was all too complicated, and Arthur gave way to sleep, ignoring the anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach. Maybe tomorrow he would dare to ask Francis why he never did.

The next time Francis read poetry with him, he- for lack of a better word- disturbed the universe. It absolutely was not Arthur's fault, how both of their hands found each other's and stayed, palms growing sweaty and comfortable the longer they sat.

Arthur wondered if he should ask. Because it certainly wasn't his fault, so the best course of action must be to point it all out. To make sure he had no false ideas about what he meant to do. He couldn't let Francis believe he enjoyed the warmth and familiarity of his soft hands… No. No, that would be false and horrible information to spread!

Francis kept reading, as if the universe hadn't begun to fall apart.

"Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?"

His hand fell from Francis's the moment the line was passed into the tense air.

"No. Not particularly."

They often spoke a strange and secret language, of poetry and answers to unasked questions, and movements so quick they barely even remember their passing. Arthur could never remember what happened after that. It could have been extraordinary, or perhaps perfectly normal. But for whatever reason, he hid his actions from himself. He never wanted to hear Francis's answers. He didn't trust himself with the knowledge.

On February 13th, Arthur was waiting on the couch for Francis to arrive home. He had rehearsed ten times over what he was meant to say, and just how he would open his arms for Francis to lay, hoping both that he would and would not accept the offer.

Of course, as all tragic lives of writers and poets go, he never got to ask. When the telephone rang, it was not Francis announcing that he would be home soon. It was not Alfred asking when Arthur would next visit. It was a hospital, and an unemotional doctor on the other end of the line. His voice was a monotone, as if he didn't care that the earth was falling out from beneath Arthur's feet. As if he just expected Arthur to be calm, instead of struggling for breath as he was, because everything that acted as air to him was gone. Not gone, the doctor said. Just close.

Close was as good as gone, because close was never the whole. Close could never be Francis again.

When Arthur first saw him, he cried. It wasn't a beautiful tragedy as so many people said it would be. He was not broken, only to be repaired by a kiss and a confession of hidden love. He was Francis beneath layers of gauze and caked on blood. His sunny hair looked dulled, and his eyes remained closed.

However said pain was beautiful had never lost someone too it. They had never seen someone have their essence drained in place of it. Just looking at him, he thought of all the things lost. Francis could no longer dance. He could no longer see to read poetry over Arthur's shoulder late at night. He could no longer watch movies in Arthur's arms as he had planned to. He could no longer cook or walk or move or see Arthur and for some reason the fact that he would never see his eyes light up as he walked in the door hurt him the most.

By the time the doctors came in to talk to him, he had run out of tears. His heart was heavy, his head spinning, yet Francis still just lied there. Arthur imagined him smiling that morning, laughing and telling him to stop acting so nervous (he always did when Francis left. He didn't like the quiet house when he was alone, no tell tale signs of Francis laying about). "It isn't as if the world is ending!" He had joked.

He almost laughed at the irony of it all.

When Francis woke up, Arthur was there. His hair was a mess, and he was only clad in his pajamas and a scarf he had torn off the hook on his way out the door. (He hadn't noticed it was Francis's until he was too far to turn back. He held onto it tightly with both hands as he walked, thinking maybe squeezing hard enough might make everything okay.) He was sure Francis wouldn't care how he looked, considering he couldn't see. He made a mental note to mention that he was in his finest clothes. Francis was sure to appreciate his dedication as soon as he heard.

"Mr. Kirkland, we have some unfortunate news…" Was the first thing he heard as he burst in the hospital doors. He didn't want to wait to see Francis. He could be sad after, he needed to pull himself together, if only for Francis's sake.

"We can speak of it after my visit."

He didn't give them a chance to stop them. He burst into the door and watched Francis jump at the sudden sound. He looked afraid, and Arthur couldn't blame him.

"Francis, it's Arthur."

Francis turned his eyes to him (still as blue as ever, but unfocused and inexpressive now. It hurt Arthur just to look at them), but they showed no signs of recognition. His lips didn't curl up in a smile. He didn't cry, as Arthur expected. He didn't say a word.

"Francis? Can you hear me?"

He nodded, straining for his voice and scooting farther back beneath itchy blankets.

"Who are you?"

The last night Arthur spent in the hospital, he read Francis a poem. He told him they were friends, and it was Francis's favorite to read. So Francis listened, quiet and intent on learning what he was meant to enjoy. What sort of people he liked to be around.

"I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me…"

This Francis liked to ask questions. He had asked him what the question was, and Arthur told him it was "Do you love me?".

He asked why this would disturb the universe. How love could ruin anything. He was naive, Arthur decided, and decidedly not Francis.

He ignored his questions and continued to read, determined that the writing would answer his questions, as it always had before.

"I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me."

Francis remarked on how depressing the idea was. Arthur argued its truth. Some people weren't meant to be sung to.

"We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Til human voices wake us, and we drown."

"Positively depressing! I enjoyed this?"

"It speaks the truth. You enjoyed truth as well as I did."

He asked what the truth was, and Arthur told him the only answer that rang true to them both.

"You enjoy love for some while, and you become comfortable, and suddenly, it's taken away. You drown. Reality welcomes you back, and you realize you wasted away all of your time dwelling on "Do I dare?"s rather than enjoying the love you had."

Before he asked any more questions, Arthur left. He couldn't explain any more to him that he knew Francis had already known. It was too painful to do anything else.

"Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

For in a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse."


End file.
